wine and cheap perfume

My aunt, an incredibly short woman with a mouth full of snaggly teeth and a closet full of colorful shawls, has been married to my uncle for over thirty years. Her hair is short and frizzy, she always smells like hummus, and large, ethnic earrings (generally made of some amalgamation of wood, beads, and feathers) flap at either side of her soft, aged neck. My uncle is a stout nudist with a red beard who may or may not have traumatized me by refusing to wear underwear as he made his morning coffee in his large, smelly apartment while I lived with them in Paris. “Would you put on a pair of underpants!” my aunt would holler at him grumpily, averting her eyes in disgust as I gagged over a bowl of fruit. The two-part reason as to why it wasn’t quite as unwholesome as one might imagine is that a.) that when seated, all you could see was his lumpy pink chest, and b.) you got the sense that he was just doing his thing-- there was no shock value in it to him. It was just something he did, and he wasn’t about to tailor his ways for any houseguest or social convention.